


Fair of Face, Fleet of Foot {Hiatus}

by theorchardofbones



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Classical Antiquity, Fauns & Satyrs, Greek and Roman Mythology - Freeform, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 15:11:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12986715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/pseuds/theorchardofbones
Summary: After a night of debauchery — one of many, on the journey to bring Noctis to his impending nuptials — Gladiolus finds himself in the company of a beautiful young man.It turns out they've already met, but that's not the only surprise in store for Gladiolus.





	Fair of Face, Fleet of Foot {Hiatus}

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deniera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deniera/gifts).



> Faun!Prompto AU, set back in a Xena-esque amalgamation of Ancient Rome and Greece.
> 
> Shout-out to [Deniera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deniera) for her kemonomimi art of Prompto, and for all the banter that sparked what was a fleeting idea into a full-fledged AU.

Gladiolus wakes to the taste of stale wine on his tongue. It’s not pleasant — nor does it help with the wave of nausea that overcomes him when he tries to sit up. The room spins and spins and refuses to right itself, and when he tries to roll over to bury his face in his sheets he finds a smooth, tanned arm in the way.

Ah. Right.

He attempts to slip out of his bed, only to find another tangle of limbs in his way. When he sits up there’s a third body dozing contentedly at the end of the sheets, and when he squints long enough for the image to stop splitting into two, he thinks it’s one of the innkeep’s sons.

_Ah._

Gently, he nudges at one of the girls wedging him in and she eventually, grudgingly, moves enough for him to clamber over her.

He relieves himself in the pot kept under the bed, then hunts around for something to wear.

There are scraps of garments everywhere, strewn across floor and furniture alike — a torn tunic here, a loincloth there. Gladiolus doesn’t recognise any of it. With a sigh, he stoops to grab the tunic, wraps it somewhat modestly around himself, and trudges out into the hallway.

Even here, there are signs of the previous night’s merriment: discarded bowls still filled with food, drinking vessels lying cracked and discarded. A young man sits in the corner, his front covered in vomit, and Gladiolus winces in sympathy as he passes.

He doesn’t find Noctis in the room next to his own — just another tangle of bodies, and the sound of soft snoring filling the room. With a smirk, he slips back outside and continues his search.

By the quality of the light he’d say it’s early yet, so they have a long while before they need to return to the road. Still, he has to find Noctis and make sure he’s at least _somewhat_ functional for the journey ahead.

Downstairs, he finds yet more slumbering bodies. The doors are barred, the tavern yet to open for the day, and when he looks around for the inkeep he doesn’t appear to be around.

When he thinks of the young man in his bed upstairs, he decides that’s perhaps not such a bad thing.

There’s a vessel of wine on one of the tables; he picks it up and drinks straight from the lip of it, gulping it down. It’s warm and gritty, decidedly less appealing now that he’s sober, but it helps somewhat with his parched throat. Once he’s had his fill, he wanders toward the patio at the rear.

Music drifts through the air as he steps outside: the soft strains of a wind instrument. He can’t seem to help but follow it, tiptoeing around the sleeping guests curled up in various states of undress across the tiled ground.

He finds the source of the music at the edge of the patio where it overlooks the plains. A young man sits on the wall, legs dangling carelessly over the edge as though he thinks nothing of the sheer drop below; his back is turned to Gladiolus, but he can see a set of panpipes in the stranger’s hands, with which he plays a cheerful tune.

As Gladiolus nears, he can see the young man’s torso is bare, littered with freckles as numerous as the stars. His hair, the gold of the pale morning sun, sits in a crown of curls about his head.

Gladiolus draws to a halt a few feet away, watching as the young man tilts his head slightly as he plays. Where first the music had seemed joyous, the more Gladiolus listens, the more he begins to hear a mournful melody, woven through the fabric of the song.

When the music draws to an end, the young man sets his pipes carefully aside, and the sunlight glints off the silver bracelets adorning his wrist.

‘I did not think anyone was awake,’ the man says softly.

His voice is mildly accented, although his grasp of the tongue is perfect. Gladiolus thinks he might be from somewhere farther along the coast, perhaps even Graecia — especially with his hair so fair.

‘It’s just you and me,’ Gladiolus says.

Slowly, he steps forward, and the urge comes over him to reach out, to touch the young man’s freckled, smooth skin, to run his fingers through those perfect, shining curls.

The stranger picks up a cup from the surface of the wall beside him and drinks deep from it before setting it aside. The movement sets his silver bracelets jingling harmoniously together, like the babble of a stream.

‘What’s your name?’ Gladiolus asks.

The young man laughs and twists to look at him; from this angle, his face is cast in shadow where he looks back.

‘You do not remember?’ the young man says. ‘I told you last night.’

Gladiolus furrows his brow — there’s a _lot_ he doesn’t remember about from last night.

‘I had too much to drink,’ he says sheepishly. ‘Tell me again and I’ll make it worth your while.’

Another laugh from the young man, delicate and melodic, and Gladiolus’s heart skips a beat.

‘Dear, sweet Gladiolus,’ the young man says. ‘That is not the first time you have made such promises to me. You were endearing enough that I felt bad to decline.’

Gladiolus is close enough now that he could reach out, could brush the very tips of his fingers against the young man’s supple, toned shoulders.

The stranger turns away.

‘In your tongue, you would call me Prompto,’ he says.

‘Prompto,’ Gladiolus echoes. ‘I’ll remember this time.’

He watches Prompto run his fingers over his panpipes, his touch almost. With his head tilted just so, the sun casts his slender, angular jaw in silhouette, and a memory flashes through Gladiolus’s head of cupping it gently, trying to coax him into a kiss.

‘Did we—?’

Prompto laughs.

‘No,’ he says. ‘Though not for want of trying, on your part.’

Gladiolus feels a pang of guilt. He’s wooed many a soul into his bed — with little care for what might lie between their legs — but never before has he felt bad about it. The urge comes over him to apologise, to put right whatever drunken misdeeds and misspoken words may have offended this young man.

‘I’m—’ he begins, but Prompto waves a hand to stop him.

‘There is no need,’ the young man says. ‘We danced, and we had fun. That is all that matters.’

Now _that_ seems hard to believe. Gladiolus doesn’t dance, especially not with beautiful young fair-headed strangers. He only hopes his friends weren’t around to witness it.

‘Maybe we could start afresh,’ Gladiolus says, taking another quiet step forward. ‘Get to know each other again.’

Prompto laughs, and there’s something sad to it much like the strains of the song he had played.

‘I do not think I will be here much longer,’ Prompto says. ‘I have a long road to travel.’

‘Where are you going?’ Gladiolus says eagerly. ‘You could accompany us.’

Prompto shakes his head, although he doesn’t offer an explanation. Gladiolus takes another step.

‘Stay with me, then,’ Gladiolus says. ‘For a little while. We could—’

‘You should wake your companions and leave,’ Prompto interjects. ‘Before the worst of the heat.’

Gladiolus is just a few feet away now. Haltingly, he reaches his hand out; when he rests it on Prompto’s upper arm, the young man doesn’t flinch away.

‘I don’t want to,’ Gladiolus says.

He can’t explain it — something about this young man is so alluring, so _addictive._ He couldn’t remember the names of his bedfellows from the night before; now, he can scarcely remember their faces.

He can already feel the heat of Prompto’s mouth on his own, as if he’s known it once before.

‘Do you know why we only danced last night, Gladiolus?’ Prompto says, interrupting his thoughts.

Gladiolus shakes his head; lets his hand fall away.

Prompto turns, lithely pulling his legs up beneath him as he moves. They’re clothed in soft, loose-fitting fabric, like something worn by the people in hotter climes to the east.

Now that Gladiolus can see his face in full, he remembers — remembers the blue eyes, the spray of freckles across his cheeks. He remembers delving his hands into the curls of golden hair, dislodging the hood Prompto had worn low, keeping his face in shadow.

By the light of the sun, he can see more clearly. Two ears — not the ears of a man, but of a beast, soft and downturned. At the top of his head, protruding through the thick curls of blonde hair, a pair of horns.

On second glance, Gladiolus can see that there’s something different about Prompto’s nose — his nostrils are flared just slightly, almost like that of a goat. His long, soft lashes catch the sunlight, brushing his cheeks when he blinks.

‘You’re a—’ Gladiolus begins, but Prompto cuts him off with a bitter laugh.

‘A monster, yes,’ Prompto says sharply. ‘You were quite vocal in your thoughts about me last night.’

‘A _faun_ ,’ Gladiolus finishes.

He paid little heed to the myths as a child, but his sister Iris loved all of it growing up — the tales of the wrathful and lustful ways of the gods, of the creatures that roamed the world before man staked his claim on it.

He wonders what he had thought last night, when confronted with something out of the bedtime stories Iris used to insist he tell her.

 _Monster_ , Prompto had said. Now, by the light of day, Gladiolus can see he’s nothing of the sort.

‘Please,’ Gladiolus says gently. ‘Stay with me. Tell me more about yourself. Tell me how you came to be here.’

Prompto shakes his head, again, and picks up his pipes, slipping them into the pocket of his lower garments. He grabs his cloak from the wall and drapes it about himself, careful to pull the hood up over his head.

‘I know all I need to know about _you_ , Gladiolus, son of Clarus,’ Prompto says briskly. ‘And I know that you are escorting your companion to his wedding day. Where you are to go, I cannot. We will not see each other again.’

He whisks past Gladiolus; before he can go, Gladiolus grabs his wrist to stop him, his fingers brushing the cool metal of Prompto’s bracelets.

Anger registers on the faun’s face — anger, and pain.

Gladiolus lets go of him and watches, silently, as Prompto deftly steps around the sleeping bodies of the inn’s guests and disappears through the door.

**Author's Note:**

> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/ghostmallovv)


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